Shame

In Steve McQueen’s (no, not that one) second feature film, a successful thirty-something yuppie (Michael Fassbender) spends his free time attending fancy bars and sleeping with beautiful women in downtown Manhattan. But don’t let the premise fool you: what initially may sound like Sex & the City for single men is actually a shocking, often disturbing venture into the dark and lonely world of a sex addict.

The opening scenes set the tone perfectly. One moment we see our protagonist Brandon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, silently contemplating what we can only imagine to be a string of depraved acts with some woman (women?) he most likely does not remember meeting the night before. Next, we see him on the subway, eyeballing a pretty blonde sitting across from him. But what starts off as a flattering glance soon turns into a chilling, predatorial stare that instantly undoes the attraction that was building up to that point.

Shame, like its protagonist, is not a film of many words. It is an intelligent, at times complex piece of filmmaking that exposes very little about its characters, leaving the audience to interpret what they can from their actions on-screen. Here, a prolonged, uncomfortable silence can be far more revealing than a sappy, over-acted monologue.

McQueen has imported all of his directorial traits that were on show in Hunger (long takes, intimate, close-up shots of his characters) and uses them to deliver a series of sex scenes that feel brutal, visceral, but never gratuitous. His depiction of the Big Apple is also as dark as the source material: this is a New York where yuppies snort coke, strangers fuck (for lack of a more fitting word) in dark alleys and a murder scene is never too far away. Put simply, it is the kind of New York where you’d expect to run into Travis Bickle.

At the centre of all the squalor is Michael Fassbender, in what must be the role of his career. Seamlessly swerving between subtle and intense, his Brandon is a man who constantly necessitates sex but is petrified by intimacy. The corrosive relationship he shares with his unstable sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan) is never explained (“We’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place” quivers Mulligan), yet bizarrely it is the closest the film comes to having a heart. Both actors turn in fiercely brave performances, not least because of the amount of time they spend fully naked: Fassbender may just go down as history’s first actor to be filmed taking a wee in the buff.

It may be the closest you’ll ever come to seeing a porn flick in your local cinema, but Shame is one of those rare, audacious films that dares you not to flinch at the gruesome reality that is being portrayed on-screen. The final 20 minutes will test even the sternest of viewers.

5/5   

The Iron Lady

If ever there was a politician whose legacy and larger-than-life character deserved the big-screen treatment, it was always going to be Margaret Thatcher (fingers crossed Silvio Berlusconi’s next in line). The first and only woman to be elected Prime Minister in the UK, she proved to be a notorious figure that not only split the country in half with her divisive policies, but also alienated members of her own party with her dominant, uncompromising nature. She is an iconic character that many aspiring writers dream of concocting.

What a disappointment then, that Phyllida Lloyd’s biopic makes for an uneven and uninspiring viewing experience that will fail to grip liberals and satisfy conservatives in equal measure.

The plot, for starters, is as formulaic as biopics come, with an octogenarian Thatcher (Meryl Streep) reminiscing about the good old days in power, whilst sipping away on whiskey and confronting apparitions of her late husband Denis (Jim Broadbent). It’s a tired and tested formula that audiences have been subjected to since Salieri’s bitter accounts on Mozart in 1984’s Amadeus. Meanwhile, the idea of Maggie struggling to release Denis’ ghost has a whiff of A Beautiful Mind to it, and is a contrivance that screenwriter Abi Morgan should have risen above.

But it’s not just the contemporary scenes that weigh the film down. The flashbacks may be ripe with historical heft and even provide valuable insight to how Thatcher became the tough as nails politician we all love/loathe, but their selective use means The Iron Lady feels less like a coherent narrative, more like a stylishly shot history lesson. Much like Oliver Stone’s W , it strives to give a compassionate portrayal of its controversial protagonist, but lacks the bite and rebellious streak a film of this calibre requires.

What cannot be faulted whatsoever though is Streep’s portrayal of the iron lady herself. An actress who is genetically incapable of turning in a bad performance, her transformation is so uncanny, you’d swear you were watching the real Thatcher. The mannerisms, the deep, commanding tone, her dry putdowns… it’s all there. She is also ably supported by Jim Broadbent, who brings some very welcome comic relief to the table as the fun-loving, ever supportive Denis Thatcher. And Olivia Colman’s brief but emotionally restrained performance as daughter Carol also deserves kudos, not least because she must do all of her acting underneath an unflattering prosthetic nose.

Alas, what could’ve been a compelling piece of historical storytelling has sadly turned out to be something of a missed opportunity. A handful of nominations for Streep aside, don’t expect The Iron Lady to make the same impact as last year’s The King's Speech.

2/5

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

As unlikely a concept is may be, the Mission: Impossible films are getting better with every new installment. While Brian De Palma’s first entry was all style but no substance and John Woo’s bloated follow-up felt at times it was desperately trying to emulate The Matrix (long black coats, nu metal soundtrack), JJ Abrams’ threequel was, surprisingly, an emotionally gripping caper convincingly supported by a series of breathtaking action sequences.

And now, five years after we last saw Tom Cruise’s super spy ride off into the sunset, Brad Bird has pulled off the impressive feat of topping Abrams’ solid work. That’s not to say Ghost Protocol will make critics’ top 10 lists of 2012, but as far as popcorn entertainment is concerned, it’s a winner.

Set a few years after the events of MI:3, we find Ethan Hunt (Cruise) leading a diminutive and somewhat inexperienced IMF team as they break into the Kremlin to retrieve top secret files. However, the mission is a set-up, as the secret service is framed for a large scale bombing on Russian soil by strategist-turned terrorist Kurt Hendricks (Michael Nyqvist). With the IMF and its members disavowed by the American government, Hunt gathers the last remaining agents and sets out to stop Hendricks’ plans for nuclear holocaust.

The plot may be as formulaic as they come, but the script throws enough curveballs to keep the audience hooked throughout: why is Ethan in a Russian prison at the start of the film? What happened to his beloved wife Julia since we last saw her? And will Hunt ever settle on a definitive hair style? More intriguingly, the aforementioned team is far from being the gathering of high class professionals we’ve been accustomed to in previous entries. Simon Pegg’s Benji is a blabbermouth tech-head prematurely promoted to field work, Paula Patton’s agent Carter is barely capable of keeping her emotions in check, while Jeremy Renner is intriguingly enigmatic as cagey analyst Brandt.

Meanwhile, the film’s lead is on fine form as the ever resourceful Ethan Hunt. He may be nearing 50, but Cruise gives an impressive physical performance, as we see him throw fisticuffs, sprint through exotic locations and hang off vertiginous skyscrapers. Judging from the footage, he may have it in him to return to the role at least one more time before hanging up the prosthetic mask for good.

However, the Cruiser may be headlining the movie but Ghost Protocol’s real star is Brad Bird. Considering this is his first live action gig, the Incredibles director does a seriously impressive job. Not only does he deliver the franchise’s most inventive opening credits sequence and spectacular action set-pieces seemingly devoid of CGI (a remarkable accomplishment, in this day and age), he also manages to transfer some of the comedy that was a joy to behold in his superhero-themed animated flick. As a result, we get a faulty phone that fails to self-destruct after five seconds and a middle-aged Hunt who realizes he may no longer be young enough to leap off a 5-story building. It’s these moments of light-hearted humour that make Ghost Protocol such an entertaining watch.

They may not be as iconic as Bond or as gritty and realistic as Bourne, but it looks like the Mission Impossible films are still a force to be reckoned with. Go see for yourself, you won’t be disappointed. 

4/5

The Artist

It’s a tough gig, finding a 21st century audience for a black and white silent film complete with onscreen title cards and continuous music score. It’s an even tougher gig trying to review said film without being caught up in the inevitable tidal wave of critical acclaim and admiration for its sheer boldness and artistic flair. But let’s overlook that Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist is a dead cert to win all the big prizes at this year’s Academy Awards and focus instead on why it’s a truly exceptional film in its own right.

This is a nostalgic Tinseltown tale set during the 1920s, when movie stars didn’t talk, studios controlled the industry and the Hollywoodland sign still dominated the landscape. George Valentin (Jean du Jardin,) is at the height of his fame, with a string of box office hits to his name and the whole world at his feet. But the arrival of talkies spells disaster for Valentin, who fails to comprehend the craze surrounding this new medium and is reluctant to move with the times (there is a potential analogy to be drawn with today’s filmmakers resisting the advent of 3D, but that’s a debate for another blog). It is not long before the actor begins to feel the full brunt of his stubbornness.   

As with any arthouse flick, some detractors will surely snipe at The Artist for its minor flaws, such as the relative simplicity and straightforwardness of the plot, which in truth throws no real curveballs. After all, this is a classic rags to riches story – or rather, riches to rags to riches again. But this being a film devoid of dialogue (well, almost), there is only so much you can do with plot twists.

And anyway, the uniqueness of The Artist lays not in the originality of the story, but in the way it is told. In a bid to portray the protagonist’s fears of becoming obsolete, Valentin has a nightmare in which sounds eerily begin to creep into his reality, to the point where the noise of a feather touching the floor becomes deafening. Meanwhile, scenes of Valentin’s gradual fall from grace are effectively juxtaposed with those of Peppy Miller’s (Berenice Bejo) rising star as she, much to the protagonist’s dismay, becomes an overnight sensation in a series of talkies.

Yet despite Hazanavicius’ impressive directorial accomplishment, major kudos should also go to the performances, considering the actors have to emote without the use of dialogue. Sporting the kind of smile that was made for the silver screen, French actor Jean Du Jardin has both the looks and the charisma to be a believable star of the silent era, but is also quietly impressive (“quiet” being the operative word) during his character’s darker moments. Meanwhile, Argentinian star Berenice Bejo is all peppy charm and appears to have been lifted directly from the cast of Gold Diggers of Broadway. The touching chemistry between the two performers comes alive whenever they share a dance floor. By the time the jazzy finale hits you, you will be hard pressed not to bounce up and start tip tapping away till the end credits roll off the screen.

5/5 

Midnight in Paris

Woody Allen doing Back to the Future in Paris? As bizarre a concept it may be, time travel is a surprisingly perfect fit for the romantic director, who whisks present day screenwriter Gil (Owen Wilson) off to the French capital of the 1920s, where he meets a host of artists, such as Salvador Dalì and F. Scott Fitzgerald, who help him overcome writer’s block. Wilson is at his most loveable as he channels Allen’s stuttering train of thought, while Paris has never been so lovingly shot since Before Sunset. However, it’s the tender illustration of the virtues of nostalgia that truly elevates the film above most of Woody’s recent, forgettable work.

4/5